


A dream most bitter and sweet

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22661977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: There is something rather addictive about having a man such as Geralt at his mercy.  All that power - contained or otherwise - bending to his whim, bowing under his fingertips.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 108





	A dream most bitter and sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Five false starts, several writing blocks, and one computer freeze later, I have finished this damn thing. Excuse me while I go cry my relief in a corner.

Jaskier isn't _at all_ comfortable with the idea of leaving Geralt on his own, caught between waking and sleeping and mind weighted down by anchors. He's hardly _defenseless_ , of course, Jaskier knows this, knows he can come fully aware in a heartbeat and have his blade at an intruder's throat the next, fingers already forming a Sign (or three, if he's feeling _particularly_ grouchy at the disturbance). It's why he's arranged the swords as he has, Geralt _always_ has them in reach, whether braced against the wall by the head of the bed, or lying just so on the floor, or resting on the table he lays his palms on instead of his thighs, breath going slower and deeper as he meditates.

But it isn't so long ago Geralt all but _tumbled_ from Roach's back, not a clean dismount in the slightest. It isn't so long ago he'd crumbled in on himself, arms crossing his middle and forehead almost touching the ground, something so very _wrong_ in the sight of the witcher making himself appear so small. Jaskier had rushed to him then, proclamation of his valiant return dead at the back of his throat and strangled by a wordless noise of concern as he fluttered his hands over curved back and hunched shoulders, panic snapping right on his heels when he felt the faintest of tremors wracking through Geralt's frame. It isn't so long ago Jaskier had to help him stand, croaked out soothing nonsense as one by one he pried gloved fingertips from digging into Geralt's sides, apologising over and over when he fit himself under one arm and heaved up with some difficulty, forcing Geralt to rise with him. He'd gripped the witcher hard round the waist when he swayed on the spot, eyes unfocused and glassy, mouth pinched into a severe line, and only a fool could mistake it for anything other than _pain_. He'd found his voice proper eventually, barking orders at the few townsfolk brave enough to approach. Stable Roach and brush her down, feed her well, keep her warm. Food and drink to be brought up to their room, two pails of water and whatever clean rags were available for use.

Geralt hadn't slept through any of it. Not the stripping of his armour, not the bathing of his skin, not the careful play of fingers around torn flesh and mottling of blooming bruises, not the push and pull of bone needle as Jaskier stitched the smaller wounds the best he could, not the bubble and hiss of one of his potions poured directly onto the mess of his lower belly (the most macabre smile Jaskier has ever seen), not the moment Jaskier took _afterward_ to breathe a sigh of relief and rest his cheek against Geralt's arm, critical eyes cast on his own handiwork. He hadn't protested the fresh water tipped past his lips, either, just drank greedily, as if his life depended on it. The first sign of awareness beyond _pain_ he'd shown had been to turn his head from the offer of food, and then to cautiously follow Jaskier's coaxing to the bed. He'd conked out soon after, and now here Jaskier is sometime later, joints stiff and creaking when he thinks to stretch out the tension lining his limbs, wired so tight he might just snap clean in two at any sudden noise.

Here is the crux of the problem, he thinks. He's never seen Geralt in _pain_ before. Injured, certainly, such is the occupational hazard of one's calling as a witcher, but never _hurting_. The man's too good at disconnecting from _everything_ to be felt, from joy to sadness, love to grief, to despair and pain. _Unfeeling_ , some might say, but Jaskier has always known better. An unfeeling bastard wouldn't hesitate to swindle a village poor of every last coin. An unfeeling bastard wouldn't find pause by a beggar woman in the city streets and sit beside her to share some of the food in his pack. An unfeeling bastard wouldn't take on contracts outwith his job description, wouldn't track down lost children or family heirlooms or intervene in a robbery or... or _worse_. A witcher kills monsters, yes, but _Geralt_ is well-versed in the nightmares wearing the faces of men and women too, inserting himself into situations he probably shouldn't, situations other witchers probably wouldn't.

The infuriating fuck's _problem_ , he thinks, is his penchant for stuffing his emotions down into his boots and getting emotionally constipated in the process, dragging poor Jaskier along for the ride. Smothering _everything_ until it's a terrifying surprise to spy the dark simmer of hurt in Geralt's eyes.

He huffs another sigh, chin in hand as he watches the witcher sleep, watches for any sign his condition is worsening, or that he's waking. Not that he ever gets much warning about that one - Geralt is typically stone dead to the world one moment and then wide awake and scaring the shit out of him the next with a grunt of annoyance at the sunlight, or the lack of food, or the poor quality of the bedframes _truly_ not fashioned to withstand _his_ bulk shifting around all night. This would be the perfect opportunity to work on another song, but the very idea of taking his lute in hand and coaxing half-formed music to the air sits foul in his stomach when Geralt so desperately needs rest to _heal_. Writing, then, he can try out stanzas to his heart's content and pause after every one to check on his bedridden companion, yes. That sounds like an acceptable plan.

And so the seconds slip by, grains of sand trickling from one end of the hourglass to the next in his mind's eye. He just hopes Geralt is too deeply asleep to be bothered by the scratch of words coming to life.

* * *

Geralt comes awake all at once, declaring "I'm fine" in his usual gravel tones.

So sudden it is that Jaskier startles, cursing as he scores a wet black line through his work, disastrous though it's been. He sets quill and ink pot aside with a sigh, lamenting such waste of parchment, before Geralt's statement _clicks_ and he rounds on the witcher with a fierce scowl of his own.

"Fine," he repeats, absolutely _incensed_. "Fine. _Fine!_ Fine is for the likes of men who have sliced their finger while skinning a rabbit, or stubbed their toe, or whacked a hammer on their thumb. Shall I tell you what fine is _not_ , my good friend? No, don't answer, I'm going to tell you anyway." And with this he gets up, advancing on the witcher with accusatory finger held high and jabbing at him as one might with a weapon in fencing, if the aim is to poke his eye out. " _Fine_ is _not_ when someone has come out the other side of a fight with monsters looking worse for wear. It is not for those who fall from their horse, and yes, you _did_ fall, don't even try to argue otherwise. Fine is not for those so out of it they're hardly aware of what's going on around them beyond _hold this, drink that, eat this_. It is not for those with their _insides hanging out_. Do you know how long I was poking and prodding at your middle wondering if it was just flesh ripped off the muscle or if it was part of your gut I had to stick back in? Far too long! And yes, it _was_ part of your gut I had to shove in and pray was in the right place, thank you _very much_. If you'd gotten here any later you might have died. _Died_ , Geralt! I owe Roach a dozen apples and twice as many sugar cubes for carting your sorry arse back here as quickly as she did. Fine! Pah. Don't sit there and-"

"Lie."

"-insult my intelli - wait, what?"

"I am _lying_ here," Geralt says, calm as ever as if he's noting the weather outside (clear, but with winter's approaching nip in the air), and he's looking _up_ at Jaskier. When did he get so close? "Not sitting."

Jaskier blinks at him. Geralt blinks back. Jaskier blinks again.

"Don't you even _think_ of being clever with _me,_ Geralt. Do you know how many times I've had your blood on my hands now? Too many! I'd recognise the smell of it even blind in a room of strangers. Men have died from _lesser_ wounds than what you have, I saw you hurting, in pain, and you think to tell me you're _fine?_ Have you, perchance, come across any tomes dedicated to tone and diction during your travels? If so, might I borrow it _to beat you over the head with?"_

"Jaskier." There's quiet command in that voice, demanding obedience, and his mouth snaps shut with an audible click of teeth, breathing heavy through his nose as he glowers. Glowers! He _never_ glowers, such a foul expression on a dashing face, what a curse if the wind changed and he's permanently stuck with such a disaster. Another ominous creak from the bed as Geralt sits up, _far_ too easily for a man with his insides on the outside only, what, hours ago? And then he's swinging his legs free of the furs and standing straight at his full height and Jaskier's backpedalling a step, suddenly much too close to the _heat_ of him. "I _say_ I'm fine because I _am_. Witchers heal quickly, you know this."

"Tell that to my _nerves_ , Geralt! You collapsed! You were hurt! I _saw_ it -"

"I'm _fine_." He says again, and catches Jaskier's hands in his own, traps his fingers when they startle and jerk. Together they map the scar left behind after the potion worked it's bottled magic, a thickened line of livid red, so _small_ now it isn't yawning wide and spewing everything everywhere. They follow the faint shadows left behind from all the bruising from hip to rib, chest to shoulder, the remnants of teeth marked on his bicep and the scattered silver marks from the neat rows of stitches Jaskier himself had fussed over, lip caught between his teeth with every one and every lack of wince from the man he'd been patching up.

"Geralt -"

"I'm _fine,"_ Geralt says, one last time, and tucks his free hand under Jaskier's chin, just that gentle touch enough to have his gaze lift and lock with molten gold.

"You were in pain and I. I haven't _seen_ you in pain."

"Because I hide it, Jaskier. I hide a lot of things."

"Like _what?"_ A challenge, and they both know it, one Geralt meets with something of a smirk before he's _kissing_ Jaskier, soft and tentative and not at all what he'd have first expected. And somewhere in the back of his mind, matching the rabbit-fast beat of his heart, the panic he's felt since Geralt returned _goes silent_ , blessed silence in exchange for this. For being stunned, amazed, knocked senseless and breathless and _oh_ , he has to respond, he _has_ to. He snatches his hands from Geralt's lax grip and shoves them into his hair instead, grips _tight_ to _keep_ him close, surges forward to return the kiss and dare for more. He gets a chuckle when he nips at Geralt's bottom lip, the witcher drawing back for a sliver of space just to call him greedy (he is, he so is, he _definitely_ is and it's worth it). He tugs on captured strands, uncaring that Geralt still smells as if someone dragged him backward through wet foliage and dumped bug guts atop his head. How long has he wanted this? How long as he _imagined_ this? And all his thoughts, all his suppositions have _nothing_ on this, on plush lips parting for his tongue, on Geralt pressing closer, on hands dropping to his hips and gripping him tight, on his affection... being _reciprocated._

"Geralt,"

 _"Jaskier,"_ one moan of his name. That's all it takes for him to catch fire in the veins, burning from the inside out. It's just as well there's a bed _conveniently_ right there.

* * *

There is something rather addictive about having a man such as Geralt at his mercy. All that power - contained or otherwise - bending to his whim, bowing under his fingertips, arching up in silent plea for _more_ when he drags his nails over the sharp cut of hip bones, studiously avoiding the one place Geralt wants attention most. Ticklish, to Jaskier's great delight, a noise somewhere between protesting huff and cutoff _yelp_ when he slides his hand down one _glorious_ thigh and curls round the knee, just a ghost of a touch to the delicate skin at its back. Geralt glares at him, but there's a warmth there, so swift it's there and gone in the blink of an eye.

He might wonder if someone else, _anyone_ else has seen Geralt like this, stretched out in a shared bed, relaxed in both his nudity and his company, but it doesn't matter. _This_ , at least, is his. This moment, this tenderness, the genuine smile curving the witcher's mouth as he slides up, up and up until he's sprawled across Geralt like a content cat, fingers kneading his chest as much the same. And if his grin is _smug_ , well, he can't be blamed for that when an arm fits around his waist in welcome, when Geralt dips in for a kiss, and another, and another. Tender little things so unlike the heat they'd shared not so long ago, not long enough.

 _Unfeeling_ his pale, plump arse.

"You look pleased with yourself," Geralt says, and how lovely it is indeed, to hear it and also _feel_ it where he rests, a rumble right alongside the slow beat of his witcher heart, steady in its rhythm.

"I imagine I do. It's not every day one beds the White Wolf with every intention of _keeping_ him in bed, you know."

"Oh you do, do you?"

"My good friend, I have been lusting after you and your outrageous cock and your _lovely_ bottom for years. If you think for one minute I'll be letting you loose of my arms again, you are, quite frankly, a madman and I should perhaps be seeking one Triss Merigold's expert opinion on your health and how best to fix it."

"Fortunate for us both, that I'm partial to the idea of staying here for a while, then."

"A while, you say."

"A _long_ while."

"Oh good, then you won't mind if _I_ sleep now," Jaskier replies, and his reward is Geralt's laughter. Quiet chuckles, really, but he'll take what he can get.

"Rest, bard. I won't be going anywhere."


End file.
